"He was taken from jail and hung by a gang spurred on by the old man, although he was not present at the deed. I gained a cool thousand in square money for it, and all went off smoothly. But I thought he was dead until he came here, found me out, gave me some money, and got me to play the same trick over again."
"I wonder what his reasons were, anyhow," mused Polk. "I'd give a five-spot to know," he added, covertly glancing at Sprowl.
"You will?"
"If it's honest, I wouldn't mind."
"I know what you're up to," nodded the other, "but if you'll promise me not to breathe a word or hint of who told you, to anybody, I'll tell you!"
"You know—or should know by this time, that I never split on a friend."
"That's so, Polk, and if you'll shell out, I'll tell you in a cat's whisper."
"Here you are; but no shenanigan, now," replied Polk, handing the bill to his comrade.
"Honor bright! Well, then, this Clay Poynter, as he calls himself, is in reality none other than Henry Duaber the son of James Duaber, who was hung on a false charge by the vigilance committee!"
"Whew!" echoed Polk Redlaw, with a long-drawn breath of astonishment. "I begin to see into it now. And the old man hates the son for the father's sake!"